Mortal of Imladris
by CleverYoungThief
Summary: Chapter 9's up! When Arathorn is killed by orcs and his son captured, the elves of Mirkwood reclaim the boy and take him to live in The Last Homely House. Twist on original backstory.
1. A Young Refugee

Author's Note: This is a little backstory centering about how Aragorn came to be raised at Rivendell. If it doesn't coincide with Tolkien's ( know for a fact that Legolas's involvement isn't a part of the original story), I don't really care.. Ah, yes, read and review, and I'll post more of the story, as much of it as I know.  
  
PS - This story got taken down because something was wrong with the links, and my new chapters weren't coming up.  
  
Disclaimer - Yadda yadda yadda, don't own 'em.   
  
The Young Refugee  
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Legolas stood in front of his throne, at the back of the room, just looking at Elrond strangely, as if he were pleading, or- The blonde prince of Mirkwood stood to the side. He spoke in the Common Tongue, and its rough, gutteral sounds echoed harshly in elvish halls. "Go on in, Aragorn."  
  
A little mortal boy stepped into the court of Elrond, carrying a falcon on his shoulder, a small hawk, tethered and hooded. He was the wildest, scruffiest-looking child that Elrond of Halfelven had ever seen. And the dirtiest. All around him, on either sides of the room, elves murmured and whispered in astonishment. Legolas came in after the boy, standing behind him and putting his hands on the boy's shoulders. He whispered in the boy's ear, as if to keep them from being overheard, although he was perfectly aware that every elf in the room could hear them. Then he walked past the mortal child, towards the throne where Elrond sat.  
  
"Come forward behind me, Aragorn. Walk up, little one. Do not be afraid."  
  
The boy walked forward, faltering steps, all too aware of the foreign whispers to either side of him, melodious words he couldn't understand. He was afraid, but he felt in his heart that it would be better not to show fear to these tall, fair, divine-looking creatures, who all looked down on him with plainfaced bewilderment and even suspicion.   
  
Legolas came before Elrond and dropped to one knee, bowing his head. Aragorn did not follow, only stood behind him, unsure and frightened. The hawk fluttered at his shoulder nervously.   
  
There was a few beats of silence in the hall. Even the elves of the court fell quiet, awaiting Elrond's words.   
  
"Greetings, Prince Legolas Greenleaf, Child of Thicket, Bane of Dol Guldur, child of my friend Thranduil, King of Mirkwood."  
  
"Greetings, Lord Elrond of Halfelven, Master of Forest and Field, regent of Imladris, ruler of Rivendell, father to Elladan, Elrohir, and the Evenstar."  
  
Elrond bid Legolas to rise, gazing past the blonde elf at the small boy.   
  
"What is your business here, son of Thranduil? And with such unusual company? Show the manners of your house, third heir to the throne of Mirkwood, and introduce your young companion."  
  
"My lord Elrond of Imladris, ruler of Rivendell.....this is the mortal Aragorn, son of Arathorn and Gilraen. I have brought him to live in the house of Halfelven." Legolas looked at Elrond again, setting his jaw in that defiant way that Elrond was quite familiar with. Of Thranduil's children, Legolas Greenleaf was always the most rebellious. He wondered what folly drove the young elf to bring an unknown mortal into his halls.  
  
Elrond stood, his long robes brushing the floor, folding his hands gracefully in front of him. "Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood, would you be so kind as to step forward a moment and speak with me in private in my chamber?" Elrond's voice held no amusement, and his gray eyes, which could be as kind as a summer wind, were cold. Legolas was close with his own twin sons, Elladan and Elrohir, who were known in all three elfdoms for their jests. If this was a prank, there would be punishment.  
  
"Of course, my lord." Legolas stepped forward, seeming to forget the little boy standing in the middle of the crowded hall, trembling a little despite himself. He glanced back at the boy, and then at Elrond. "What about the child?"   
  
Elrond looked at Aragorn, and his eyes did not warm to him. He looked to a few of the guards standing to either side of his throne. "Go over and keep watch over the mortal." He glaned back at Aragorn, then at the guards again. "A close watch. He is not to leave this hall."  
  
The lord of Rivendell led Legolas to his study.   
  
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"Now, Legolas, that we are out of the eyes of the court," Elrond said, settling himself into a chair in his study, "you'd best tell me what this is all about? My patience grows thin."  
  
"And was never thick to begin with."  
  
Elrond scowled, but let the comment go. He had long ago learned that Legolas Greenleaf often spoke rashly, before thinking on his words, and nothing could convince him to do otherwise.   
  
"I apologize, Lord Elrond. It is just that I have rode hard from Mirkwood, and with the boy in my care," Legolas added. His quick apologies were another reason his insults were not particularly provocative. The fact that his words usually stung with truth helped, as well.  
  
"Enough with the lording and the formalities. Just get to the part that explains what you mean, dragging that dirty human child into my court. Well?"  
  
Elrond heard him out without interrupting once, all through the prince's stumbling account of a few week's past. The boy's father, Arathorn of the Dunedain, had been killed by an orc ambush. The boy had been captured by the dark creatures, and then rescued from their cruel hands by Legolas and a band of hunters from Mirkwood. He then went on to tell of how he had tried to take the boy back to the Mirkwood court and failed, then brought the child to Rivendell. He didn't sit down the whole time he was making his explanation.   
  
When his voice seemed finally to trail off, and his tale to end, Elrond asked a single question.   
  
"Why?"  
  
Legolas did not answer. The calmness that had been radiating from Elrond was starting to fall off. "Why did you bring him here, Legolas, when you should have taken him back to the world of men?"   
  
Legolas gave him a pleading look Elrond would not understand. He folded his hands slowly, his eyes never leaving Legolas's blue ones.   
  
"Elrond, please take him. Arathorn and Gilraen were known to you. They were elf-friends."  
  
Elrond was silent for a few moments. "Why did you not leave him in Mirkwood?"  
  
Legolas shook his head. "My father does not know mortals the way you do. We have not had men in our court for over a century. And he never knew Arathorn or Gilraen. He could see no reason the responsibility for the boy lay with him. He does not trust men."  
  
Elrond just looked at the blonde prince for a few more moments, then sighed. "Alright, Legolas. Alright. We'll look after him. Keep him clean. Dress him decently. But don't expect anything more from the house of Halfelven."  
  
Legolas scowled. "Was Gilraen not a friend of the Last Homely House? Does her memorial not lie outside its halls? Elrond, he needs us for more than food and shelter. He has been at the mercy of orcs."  
  
Elrond's gaze grew dark. "Is he...unmaimed?"  
  
"...I know not. I have not had much chance to speak with him."  
  
"What were you thinking, Legolas? That you could just adopt this mortal child into my house without informing me ahead of time? That he will just become one of us with no harm to him? He's filthy, uncivilized, and he doesn't speak our tongue. Do you honestly think that even in time my household could come to love him as our own? That sullied little refugee?"  
  
"Why not, Elrond?" Legolas's voice was flat, with a pushed-to-the-wall stubbornness. "Since when are there reasons for the Eldar to love? Only reasons not to. And then we go on loving in spite of them. We care about every creature, light or dark. And he, at least, is a creature of light."  
  
"You, Legolas Greenleaf, are a tender-hearted fool," Elrond replied, though a smile was starting to curve his lips. "I submit. We will take him in. We will love him, if we can find it in our hearts to do so. But on a condition."  
  
Legolas let out a relieved sigh. "You have but to ask."  
  
Elrond smiled. "You will come, very often, to visit at my house. You will teach him all the skills at your command. And you will watch him. I cannot always be tending a child, and he is your responsibility. If you want your pet to stay here, you must still care for it."  
  
There was an eruption of noise from the great hall. Screeching cries and shouting. A sound of shattering glass. The lord of Rivendell and the prince of Mirkwood exchanged a look and ran for the hall. The racket inside was deafening. Elves of the court were cringing from the noise, covering their sensitive ears, eyes fixed towards the ceiling. The hawk the boy had been carrying was loose and unhooded and flying around the room in widening circles, its calls echoing in the high cathedral rafters.   
  
Under a banquet table near the far window, the mortal Aragorn crouched like a cornered animal, hiding in the shadows, hands over his ears as well, eyes wide and white and glazed with fear. The sound of the shattering glass had been crystal candleholders along the banquet table as the bird had skidded along it, trying to fly away, knocking them to the stone floor.   
  
All the elves were flustered by the hawk, such a small creature. Elrond spoke in the tongue of birds, his voice soft and lilting, and after a final circle of the room, the hawk came to land docilely on his shoulder. Elrond's gaze returned to Aragorn, and the little mortal boy was looking at him, and their eyes locked. The tension in the room was unbearable.   
  
Elrond's laughter, free and full-hearted, echoed through the Hall.  
  
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That's it for the first chapter. Review guys, second chapter's almost finished. I'll post it once I get some feedback on the first one. 


	2. Uneasy Introductions

Author's Note: Second chapter. As to the few people who did not like my take on the way Aragorn came to Rivendell, I really do not care. ^_^ When I said it was pretty close to Tolkien's backstory, I meant it only in the fact that his father was killed by orcs and he came to live in Rivendell as a young child. Legolas being involved, of course, is my own little twist. Yes, I know Gilraen brought Aragorn to Elrond in Rivendell. Let me say it one more time: I KNOW THAT. However, I really didn't feel like writing the same stuff Tolkien did, because where's the fun in that? No, I haven't read The Two Towers or The Return of the King, although I plan to as soon as I get some money to actually *buy* the books. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people who have the patience to memorize Elvish and knows all the backstory backwards and forwards, so artistic license just has to carry me the rest of the way. Review, review, people, and flames only stoke my fires (especially if you can't spell surprises, then have the gall to say I don't have a literary bone in my body; don't make me go there, sweetheart *evil smirk*) Rowr. Tolkien fans are feisty about that background history, yeah?  
  
Disclaimer - Don't own 'em.  
  
Anyway, enough ranting. On with the fic.  
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Uneasy Introductions  
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Once the court was settled again, Legolas began to try and leave.   
  
"My father expected me home a week past. He will be sick with worry," the prince said, seeming to edge towards the door.   
  
Elrond gave him a reproving look, which faded into bewilderment and agitation. "Where are you off to in such a hurry, Legolas Greenleaf? You would just leave me with a human child hiding in my hall?!"  
  
Legolas smiled a little. "You need to learn to get on with him, Lord Elrond, and if I stay, I'll only get in the way. My father needs my help. I am the leader of our archers, and Dol Guldur is becoming a problem. Evil things have begun to skulk in our woods. The shadow from the east grows darker every day. I promise, I will be back as soon as I can."  
  
"Fine then, bold little prince," Elrond said, rather impatiently waving the young elf off, for he thought it forward for Legolas to drop this boy into his lap and leave again so suddenly. "Go and see to your father. But I warn you, I expect to see you riding into my courtyard within the next few weeks. You will help see to the child, or I'll send him to Eriador."   
  
"I give you my word, Elrond. I will return."  
  
When farewells were exchanged and Legolas had began his journey back to Mirkwood with a fresh horse and fresh supplies, Elrond went about the task of collecting the boy that had been left in his care. He handed the boy's ragged-looking little falcon to one of his attendants and walked over to the table Aragorn was hiding under.   
  
The boy was very young yet, yet so much had already been taken from him, by what he'd seen. Recollection was choked from him, and the capacity for articulate speech driven from his terrified mind. He had seen his father fall at the hands of orcs, had been captive to their will for days as the band of Mirkwood elves tracked them. All his personal effects, save a few scraps of tattered clothing, had been stripped from him. He was hot and exhausted and hurt from the beatings of orcs, and the shadows beneath the banquet table were a comfort he could wrap himself in. He was very hungry, but had no hope to be fed. The orcs had never fed him, not once while he was their captive, and he had never known elves. Richly dressed as they were, he didn't hold out any hope that they would feed him, either.   
  
Crouching there under the table, he strained to remember who he was, where he had come from. He remembered only the warm grasslands of his people, the great city-the name was lost to him. The name of his city was gone. Tears ran down his cheeks unchecked. He tried to curl into as small a ball as possible, as if he could make himself invisible.   
  
All around him, through the chairs, he could see the wondrously dressed elves. He knew they were elves from their ears, and their almost luminous eyes, their long flowing hair. They spoke a whispering language all around him, a tongue that was soft and sweet like birdsong, but he couldn't understand a word.  
  
The one from the front of the room, with the sweeping robes and dark hair, went down to one knee, peering under the table with gray eyes the color of a winter storm. He whispered a few words in the elf language, talked a song the boy didn't understand, but it seemed to make him feel better anyway. The elf gently moved a chair to the side, in order to see the child better. A king of elves, kneeling to a mortal boy.   
  
Elrond spoke a few words of Elvish, soothing words, meaning to calm the boy, then switched to the Common Tongue.  
  
"How long were you planning on staying under there?"  
  
Aragorn understood and did not understand. He came forward slightly, trying to get a better look at this elf, who seemed to be the leader of them all. He was dressed all in gray velvet. His face was remarkable to Aragorn. It was kind, seemingly ageless, but without a wrinkle or mark on it to tell the passage of time. His rich black hair was parted down the middle and combed richly down his shoulders. A silver band adorned with an intricate mithril jewel sat at his brows. His face had a serene, settled look, a look that said it could be both sweet and stern.   
  
The boy allowed himself to be pulled out and gently coaxed to his feet. It was not so much that he trusted the elf; he was much too world-wise and jaded for such fast faith. It was more that he was too tired and dazed and grief-stricken to do anything else. Tears still overflowed and coursed down his cheeks, but Elrond wiped them away absently, though with a tender touch. There was enough strength left in the boy to hope that this kindness was not feigned. The orcs had never bothered to pretend.   
  
"Come to me, child, and I'll take you to a more quiet place." Elrond held out a hand to him, and Aragorn, not having anyone else to take solace in, hemmed in by a circle of wondering inhuman eyes, went to him. But instead of simply taking his hand, he ran and clung to the elvish lord like a shipwrecked sailor reaching for anything to keep him afloat; the mortal boy buried his face in the tall elf's robes and sobbed silently, embracing the elf lord as tightly as he could, much to Elrond's dismay.   
  
Elrond's robes were a comfort to Aragorn. They were sweet-smelling, soft as nothing he had felt before, and they seemed to engulf him, hiding him from all the people looking at him.   
  
As for Elrond, he could not make up his mind whether to be shocked at such undignified behavior, or endeared to the boy by it. His own children were brought up in the court, and though they loved him in their own ways, they were never so frank about it. In the end, he thought it sweet, and honest at the least. Yet, the boy did not speak. Elrond wondered briefly if he was weak-minded.   
  
He lifted the boy into his arms, having to force his nose not to wrinkle in distaste at the smell of dirt, sweat, and orc's blood, which was the most overpowering. Aragorn's coarse, tattered clothes were stained black with it.   
  
"Could do with a bath, couldn't you?" he asked, looking down at the boy in his arms, but Aragorn only ducked his head shyly against Elrond's chest. The elvish lord knew that the boy was frightened; still, he saw great courage in a child that was brave enough to hug a king.   
  
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Read, review, I'm working on a new chapter (btw, I haven't forseen any slash, for the person that asked). But if you you're an A/L fan, read "Longing for Lorien".   
  
Yes, that was a shameless plug. Sue me. 


	3. A Father Again

Author's Note: Woo! Third chapter! This has been ready for awhile, but for some reason I couldn't log in to FFNet, so I haven't been able to post it. Anyway, this chapter basically cleans that scruffy little waif up! By the way, yes, I will have it discovered by Elrond about Aragorn's heritage, Elladan and Elrohir are going to make an appearance, I'll explain more about the falcon, Legolas *will* make a return to Imladris, and I've already got a good idea about Aragorn and Arwen for later! Read and review, and I'll keep writing. I have the fourth chapter ready for editing, but I'll wait for some reviews before I post it. ^_^  
  
PS - For Varda, who pointed out to me that I used the title "Elessar" out of context, I apologize. It's only my second LotR fic, and I'm not quite used to the canon yet.   
  
A Father Again  
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With the grimy child carefully held in his strong arms, half-covered by the sleeves of his robes, Elrond made his way to the quarters where he and his kin still dwelled. He gave his attendants orders to find suitable clothing and to heat water over braziers for a bath. Done crying except for a breath hitched in every few moments, Aragorn listened to Elrond's soft singing commands. Eyes that were still wet with a child's tears were also wide and alert; the boy was already starting to learn certain patterns of intonation and inflection in the elvish speech, although he didn't realize he was doing it.   
  
Meanwhile, Elrond was trying desperately to remember the tiniest details of what it had been like to raise his own children. That had been thousands of years ago, and although elvish memory was vivid, the situation was so rushed that he was having trouble recalling such trivial things. At the time, he had been having more problems with war than he was taking care of Elladan, Elrohir, and Arwen, so he feared that most of their rearing had been done by their nursemaids.   
  
"Do not be frightened, child," he said softly in the Common Tongue, rocking the boy a little in a way he thought might soothe him. "We will not harm you. You have only friends here."  
  
The large bath was done in marble, fixed over a fire to keep the water warm. When it was ready, he carried the boy forward and set him gently on the floor. "Now then." He looked at the child expectantly.   
  
The boy looked back up at him, with not the least bit of fear, now. There was steel in that gaze, yes. Young though it was. There was steel there. And a wondering curiosity. That second part reminded Elrond of Bilbo Baggins and the hobbits. That same kind of amazement and innocence shown from the boy, but that other part, that determination he saw in the boy's eyes to go forward unafraid, whatever came...that was not hobbitlike in the least. That part was completely human. He couldn't believe he had ever thought the boy was simple.   
  
Keeping his voice gentle, and trying to be as tactful as he could, he asked. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, have you ever had a bath? A true one?"  
  
The boy spoke the first words Elrond ever heard out of him. His voice was small, but increasingly confident. "You mean, in a basin?"  
  
Elrond nodded.   
  
"No, I don't remember," Aragorn said softly. There was a small scowl on his face as he tried to recall anything about such things. "In the summer, I wash in the river. I mean, I did. It was too cold any other time." His eyes, Elrond saw for the first time, were a light gray, the color of sunlight hitting mithril. His hair, tangled and clotted with filth, was still an undeterminable color. "We washed our hands and face before every meal, and our clothes...when we could," the boy added with a flush coming up in his cheeks, as if he knew that cleanliness made an impression on the elvish lord. His eyes lit up for a second. "The Entwash. It was the River Entwash. I remember it."  
  
"Well, you can talk, at least. I was beginning to wonder if they had cut out your tongue," Elrond said quietly without thinking, then wished immediately he could take it back when fear returned to the boy's face. What a thing to say to a child! He would have to try and remember himself, and speak more carefully. "No, no, nevermind it, boy. Let's get you out of those clothes."  
  
Elrond reached out to help the boy, pulling the dirty jerkin over his head. Aragorn wriggled out of the torn trousers, chaps and leather leggings himself. Elrond gathered the soiled clothes to give to an attendant to burn, for they smelled of both orc and human blood, not to mention unclean earth, but he hesitated. The boy's parents had made them, probably his mother, and though they had been ripped by orcs and soiled with blood, and though even clean, they would be faded and worn, the stitching was good. The clothes had been sewn with care and love, and was as fine and even as any elvish garment. Instead of having them burnt, Elrond decided to have them cleaned and put away. For a memory, even if not to be worn again. The boy deserved at least that much.   
  
The boy had obviously gone without food for days. Now that Aragorn stood before him naked, the elvish lord could see ribs outlined, and bruises covering him. Along with scratches and streaks of dirt and dried blood were also fresh bloody welts across the boy's back. Elrond was sure that this was the work of orcs. He imagined a stubborn young mortal as this would probably have had to be whipped into submission.   
  
Elrond lifted Aragorn up into the tub; the boy seemed to weigh nothing at all. Exhausted as he was, the boy closed his eyes and sank down into the water until Elrond started in alarm, afraid that he was fainting. But the boy stopped before his head went under the water. His voice came up suddenly, resounding off the marble tiles of the bath, even though it was soft.   
  
"Will this get their scent off me?" he whispered, not opening his eyes. Rose petals floated on the top of the warm water, thrown in with spices to perfume it. Steam rose in a hot mist.  
  
Elrond stilled. It was not something he had expected the boy to say, and he wasn't sure how to reply. "Yes, yes, it should. We will bathe you until it is gone, anyway. I trust you are...unhurt?" he added. He knew that there was no gentle way to ask the question he really wanted to know the answer to. But perhaps, he thought, it was better to not even think on such things. Not while the death of the boy's father was so fresh.   
  
The lord of Imladris sighed softly. He had been particularly fond of Arathorn and Gilraen. Their songs of lament had not started yet, but he was sure it would not be long before the elves' grieving could be heard throughout the forest. He was only glad the boy could not understand them.   
  
Elrond kneeled by the basin with a soft cloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. He hadn't known another's feet, dwarf or human or elf, could be so incredibly filthy. It was obvious the boy hadn't worn shoes for some time. Aragorn was shivering as if the heated water could not pierce the chilled core of him, making tiny ripples.   
  
Elrond began washing, dipping the cloth into the water and squeezing it over the child's body. Beneath his hands, he felt the shivering slowly stop, the muscles ease and relax. The boy's eyes opened.   
  
Soap turned the boy's skin to clean satin under Elrond's delicate touch; the elvish lord rubbed hard enough to clean away the dirt, but was mindful of the fresh wounds on the boy's back. Elrond himself felt as if he was held captive in a net spun of warm water and steam and the sweet smell of the soap. He was bound there by the boy's eyes, catching his sometimes, uncertainly. The eyes of Aragorn never left his face. They always seemed to be watching, waiting perhaps for the elf's facade of tenderness to fade away into something hurtful. But slowly, the boy's eyelids drooped as he took on an air of drowsy peace.   
  
Their eyes caught, and Elrond laughed, low and amazed. Aragorn reached a wet finger to the elf's face, streaking it with soap, his eyes serious. "How old are you?"  
  
"Very old," Elrond replied softly, smiling just a little. The question was amusing, slightly ridiculous in its innocence. He wondered if he was being slowly won over by this little waif of a mortal, who was both so naive and hardened by what he had seen at the same time.   
  
It could not be that easy for him, Elrond, lord of Imladris, to be endeared to such a fragile young dirty creature. It was not easy so far, no matter how fond he had been of Arathorn and Gilraen. It was only that he'd wanted to protect the child of Arathorn, who had always been elf-friend.  
  
Or maybe, he mused, you're just afraid to commit yourself to this child, who is not like your own, to live forever in your house, but who will someday die or be killed, and taken from you?  
  
Elrond of Halfelven, who had defied Sauron to his face, afraid? Absurd.   
  
"Older than my father?" Another of Aragorn's questions interrupted his thoughts.   
  
"Older than the father of your father's father."  
  
The boy shifted in the tub and lost traction, slipping beneath the water. Elrond reached in and pulled him up, sputtering, with soap in his eyes. He emptied the tub and called for fresh water, stoking the brazier beneath it, and started the whole process over again. This time, he scrubbed hands, toes, fingernails, and the bottom of the boy's feet with a stiff brush, and still wasn't completely satisfied. He wondered wryly how many baths would be needed to wash away that ground-in dirt and blood.   
  
They fell into mutual silence as Elrond dried Aragorn down. He put the boy in some of Elladan and Elrohir's childhood clothes, the few that survived their antics, anyway. They were elvish cloth that had not been destroyed, but preserved for over two thousand years. The garments were castoff and a little worn, but didn't fit all too badly. To Aragorn, they seemed the finery of a king. Elrond combed Aragorn's wet, uneven dark hair as best he could, then pulled it back from the boy's face with a leather lace, stepping back finally to take a look at him.   
  
He was reasonably handsome, for a mortal child, but not quite fair, at least not in the sense that the elves were fair. His skin was too tanned by long weeks on the trail, an imperfect set to his face that made him seem more hardy than elegant. But in the clothes Elrond had put on him, he seemed to take on an almost regal appearance. The elvish lord could tell already that the boy would grow to have a face to be trusted.   
  
Aragorn lifted the elvish tunic up and buried his nose in it. "Smells different."  
  
"Yes, well," Elrond replied, not knowing whether to laugh or take offense. He stifled a chuckle in a cough and maintained a neutral expression. "You smell different now, as well. And I cannot scent orc on you."  
  
"Good," the boy replied, lifting his gaze. It was fierce.   
  
"Come look at yourself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and tell me what you think." He led the boy to a guest chamber, over to a large crystal mirror. Elrond felt his throat tighten as he watched the boy, with his scared, hopeful, brave eyes and his bruised face approach his own image as if it was the most wondrous thing he'd ever seen.   
  
What must he be thinking? Elrond wondered, watching the boy smooth down his clothes, feeling their texture, bringing his eyes up every few seconds to look in the mirror unbelievingly. Maybe he's never seen himself before, in anything but flat water. Maybe he's never seen a mirror.   
  
The boy touched the soft kid leather boots, the strapped leggings, the tunic, then the cord in his hair. He looked up at Elrond's reflection in the mirror. "Elrond?" It was the first time he had spoken the name, and Elrond was pleased by the soft lilt Aragorn gave the word, although the fact that the boy didn't add his title was extraordinary to him. So young, yet so bold already.   
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Am I going to live here now?"  
  
Elrond felt a flash of anger at Legolas, seemingly from nowhere. How dare the Mirkwood prince presume to leave this child in his care? He realized that a part of it wasn't directed at Legolas at all; it was only a dim grief-driven fury, that Arathorn, one of the most noble and just men Elrond had ever known in all the ages of his life, had died so senselessly. But Legolas had left this boy with him, the blood of Arathorn and the fair lady Gilraen, without having the remotest idea what kind of creature the child really was, what he'd seen, and what had happened to him.   
  
Something must have shown on his face, because Aragorn gave him a lost, bewildered look. Elrond was immediately ashamed, though he never would have admitted it. The boy could not help it that he had come to be here. He had not asked for his father to be killed in front of him.   
  
If you can do nothing else for the boy, Elrond thought to himself, at least be kind. And do not fault Legolas. He did what he thought was right for the time.   
  
He made himself smile and held out his hand to the boy. "Come, boy. We'll see to your meal and your hawk, and then we'll see about you staying here. But there are a few people I would like you to meet first."   
  
~~~~~~~~~ That's it. Review review people! Better reviews make for a better story (like people asking questions and giving me good ideas!) 


	4. Elladan and Elrohir

Author's Note: Thanks a bunch, Nilmandra, for all the information, it really helps a lot with my timing for everything later on in the story, although I may change a few minor things in the back history for artistic license. For Emerald Queen, don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Aragorn's elvish name. ^_^ Working it into the next chapter. As for now, let's meet the twins!  
  
Elladan and Elrohir  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Elrond led the boy into a quieter set of corridors, further into the palace. He wanted to introduce the boy to Elladan and Elrohir. He could not show the boy to Arwen, who was away at Lothlorien, but he wanted the boy to know as many of his new family as possible, as soon as possible.   
  
Aragorn made a small sound, and the elvish lord looked down to see the boy halt inside the door, his sterling eyes moving slowly from one elf to another, but whether from amazement or disquiet, Elrond couldn't tell. He'd been raised on the plains, had seen the great city of Minas Tirith. Would he be disturbed by the closed-in feeling of the palace and woods, of their hushed air and lack of freedom?  
  
The last few days of Aragorn's life were a blur in his eyes. He was no longer physically afraid, but he could not be at peace. He was no longer the bright, fearless little son of Arathorn.   
  
That first day, the day he came, was the only day Aragorn was afraid. He liked taking the bath, being all warm and clean at the same time, with Elrond there, and then being dressed in clothes that were not new but were still marvelous to him. But Elrond was more important than any of these things. Elrond became a rock for him in a raging tide, something he could cling to when no one had been left to him.   
  
Elrond took him into a restful chamber where two dark-haired elves, completely identical, were lounging in a set of chairs. He pulled the boy forward, and his sons stood respectfully as he walked into the room.   
  
"This is Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Elrond said to his sons. "He is going to stay here." He glanced down at Aragorn, smiling encouragingly. "Aragorn, these are my sons, Elladan and Elrohir."  
  
Aragorn looked a little uncomfortably up at the elves. He could not tell them apart, although one had his hair flowing freely down his shoulders, while the other had his hair pulled back into a braid. They both had the same long smooth raven hair as their father, the same gray eyes. They wore identical, almost mischievous expressions of amusement and curiosity. He was amazed at their easy acceptance of him, which was so different from the violated looks some of the other elves had given him, as if he was an invader. These two looked at him openly, without resentment.  
  
The one with the braid laughed, and Aragorn immediately loved the sound of it. It reminded him of his father. It started kind of low, and then burst out of him like a free wild live thing. The other one, his twin, just grinned over at him.   
  
After a few soft, lyrical elvish words with their father, the two spoke the Common Tongue, so that Aragorn could understand them. Although he couldn't quite keep up with them.   
  
"Look at him, up in our old clothes," the braided one declared, still laughing softly.   
"He looks like a little fallen princeling," the other replied.  
"Aragorn, yes? His has his father's face-"  
"-and his mother's eyes."  
"My thoughts exactly."  
"Of course."  
  
"Father, let us have him awhile," the braided one said finally, raising gray eyes to meet Elrond's in a plea that did not look like it could come from an elf over three thousand years old. It was the expression of a teenager who wanted a chance to play with a new pet.   
  
Elrond considered this a moment, glancing at Aragorn, then back at his sons, then nodded slowly. "Alright, Elrohir. I do have things that need attending. But be gentle. Very gentle. It had been a trying day for him."  
  
Aragorn was glad that Elrond had spoken the braided one's name. He could now tell them apart, at least. But he panicked when Elrond began to leave. "No, don't leave me!" he cried out softly, starting forward to grasp at Elrond's robe.   
  
The elf-lord crouched down to speak with the boy, his voice kindly. "I will not leave you. You have my solemn word. But let Elladan and Elrohir feed you, find you other things to wear. You cannot have just one set of clothing."  
  
The twin elves held his shoulders gently, so he couldn't follow Elrond out.   
  
"Come on, come on, we will be good to you," Elladan said cheerfully. Both of them sounded as Aragorn had always imagined elves would sound, from his father's stories. Not solemn and regal, like Elrond was, but joyful and carefree.   
  
The two of them shuffled through ancient-looking trunks and argued good-naturedly over old tunics and other clothing, whether they were good enough for Aragorn to be seen in. He was fairly overwhelmed.  
  
"What about these boots?"   
"They're too ragged."  
"For Feanor's sake, Elladan, they're only for now! He'll have his own things soon enough."  
"Here are some gloves."  
"This vest was always too small for me."   
  
Shimmering necklaces, emblems, jeweled rings and buckles were all given to him, put on him, inspected critically. The boy soon learned that he could not be overdressed for the court of Rivendell. He was given mithril adornments marked with flowing inscriptions he couldn't read. Aragorn did not speak through any of this, only let his eyes wander back and forth between Elladan and Elrohir, trying to find something in their faces to set them apart in his mind.   
  
The twins were very talkative. They tried to keep to the Common Tongue for Aragorn's sake, but their thoughts seemed to run together, and they often slipped into their own speech. Even when he couldn't understand them, Aragorn was fascinated by watching them. They seemed so different from the other elves, less restrained somehow. They snickered, teased, and interrogated each other and every other elf they encountered. They were a whirling, seemingly unstoppable force, whipping through the halls of Halfelven like a storm of sweeping robes and laughter.   
  
They pulled him through the halls. The Great House they called "ampano", teaching the young boy the elvish word with enjoyment.  
  
"Forget all troubles that have gone before this," Elrohir said, his voice delighted, almost singing. He glanced down at Aragorn and winked merrily at the boy. "Elrond is the Lord of this house, we are his princes, and now, you shall be as well. You are safe now, and nothing can hurt you."  
  
They taught him words in the new melodious language of the elves as they ordered him and themselves a meal from the kitchens, separate from the great hall, because he was not comfortable yet with the court. They taught him the words for silk and velvet and silver, marble and ironwood, the names of doors and windows, candles and books. Aragorn listened, not always catching what they said, but always listening.   
  
They spoke long of mithril, when Aragorn fingered the fine silver chains at his neck. Dwarves dug into the depths of the earth for such treasure, the twins whispered, although sometimes they dug far too deep. Men killed over it in cold blood. It was an elvish wealth, they said, hoarded from thousands of years before, when it had been plentiful. But no Men dared to try and take it from them.  
  
Names Aragorn recognized and names he never heard of came through in the twins' quick talk. Amroth. Legolas. Elbereth. Beren. Arwen. Lorien. Galdor. Galadriel. Celebrant.  
  
He became upset, though, when he came to find that his hawk had been caged by Elrond's attendants. Aragorn was sure that Andune did not want to be in there. The little hawk had been given to him by his father, had once been his father's best falcon, and had never had to be caged in his life.   
  
Andune was old, and hunted now only for himself, not for sport. His bronze-colored feathers were worn, but his eyes were still lively and piercing as ever. Fierce and unblinking. Seemingly indifferent to the violent death of his former master. Just two years before, when Aragorn had petted him and caught him unawares, on the hawk's blind side, Andune had torn the boy's arm almost from wrist to elbow. Aragorn had not cried, and he had not been angry. It was the way of hawks.   
  
"You can't keep him caged," Aragorn whispered softly. The hawk looked back at him silently through golden bars with golden eyes, one filmed and clouded with age, the other still bright as a wedding ring.   
  
Elladan came over by him, his voice gone soft. "Your little hawk is not used to these woods, Aragorn. If you let him loose, he may fly away. You may not see him again."  
  
Aragorn looked in at Andune and knew it wasn't right for him to be in there. If he flew....he flew. Aragorn would not see him caged...not if he could help it. The hawk had followed the orcs that had captured him. One of the things that had helped him to have hope was Andune's shadow following him. Brutal, and merciless, maybe, but the raptor had always had a vestige of loyalty. Aragorn meant to be loyal to his hawk. It was what his father would have wanted him to do.   
  
"It's up to you, Aragorn," Elrohir said. "If you want to take a chance..."  
  
"He is my friend. He will not fly far," Aragorn said softly, although he wasn't sure.   
  
So Elladan opened the cage. Aragorn held out his bare arm to the hawk. "Hie, to me, Andune."  
  
The hawk stepped onto his arm and stood motionless, unhooded. Aragorn carefully stroked smooth, soft breast feathers, balling his fingers, petting the untamed hawk with the back of his hand.   
  
Elrohir let out a low, astonished laugh. "You have trained him? He seemed feral."  
  
Aragorn smiled a little, with a wisdom beyond his young years. "He is wild. He's always been wild. I only friended him. He'd claw my eyes out now, if it suited him."  
  
Aragorn carried the hawk carefully to the entrance of the Great Hall and threw him up into the air. The russet falcon, looking so slow and feeble on tether, shot into the air like an arrow, sailing deftly through the thick trees of Imladris.   
  
The two elves and boy watched the hawk fly off, until he was nothing but a high shadow over the forest in the darkening half light. The smell of smoke from the kitchen's woodfires was in the air, along with the smell of good food. Things of comfort.   
  
"He'll come back," Aragorn said softly, and hoped the words were true. He walked slowly back into the Great Hall with Elladan and Elrohir on either side of him, needing as much comfort as he could get.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~ Alrighty! Leave good reviews, you know the drill! More than halfway through with the next chapter. It's a weekend, so it'll probably be ready before the end of tonight or early tommorrow, maybe even earlier with that. 


	5. Estel

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, as always! They're encouraging! By the way, somewhere along the line, Aragorn is going to age quite a bit (not in this chapter, but one of the later ones that isn't written yet), so don't be surprised when it happens.  
  
Estel  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
This was comfort.   
  
The air inside the secluded room where the twins were taking their meal with him was rosy and golden, perfumed with hot bread and spices, warmed by a brazier in the corner. Aragorn had never seen so much food in his life. There were huge platters of fruit and vegetables and bread brought out and set before them that dazzled his mind. The variety of things to eat itself was amazing, especially after all the weeks on the trail with his father, where he had had nothing but deer, rabbit, and a few herbs and greens his father had declared safe for their band to eat.   
  
Here were some foods he had never seen before, outlandish vegetables, rinds of cheese, warm biscuits, crocks of sweet white butter, lembas bread, fresh fruit, whipped cream, chunks of cake. While Elladan and Elrohir ate sparingly, Aragorn couldn't seem to get enough of any of it, refilling his plate again and again. After awhile, the two elves stopped eating entirely, watching the boy eat with wonder, trying to figure out where he was putting it all.  
  
The twins spoke quietly among themselves in their own language, letting Aragorn eat in peace, and get a little peace. Finally, Elrohir nodded to himself after watching the boy, and turned to his brother, switching to the Common Tongue again.   
  
"You know, I think he needs a new name. I've been thinking on it all afternoon. He's in a new place, and he's one of us now. I think he should leave his old name behind....until he grows into it."  
  
"That's ridiculous," Elladan replied seriously, a scowl set on his face. "You can't just give someone a new name. Names are things of power, especially with Men. You know that. Anyway, it's not your place to decide what to call him."  
  
"It's not ridiculous, Elladan. He'll never fit in with a name like he has. And it'll always drag him down, what he is and where he came from. He should be able to forget those things."  
  
The boy watched both of them, a little bit taken with the idea of a new name, especially if these people, who had comforted him and fed him and treated him like one of them, were the ones to give it to him.  
  
"What would you call him, then?"  
"Fionelwen. Hawkheart."  
  
Aragorn looked dubious. He mouthed the word silently and knew before even saying it aloud that he would butcher the flowing syllables, and ended in a yawn. The room was so warm.  
  
Elladan saw the expression on Aragorn's face and laughed softly. "What a name! He could not even say it!"  
  
The murmuring of the twins was making the boy sleepier and sleepier. He pushed his plate away and rested his head in his arms.  
  
He wasn't sure how long he sat dozing there with his head on the table before he felt himself lifted up. He opened his eyes sleepily, seeing that the person carrying him was not Elladan or Elrohir but Elrond himself, and buried his face away from the light in elvish lord's shoulder. Elrond carried the boy into a bedchamber set off of the royal quarters and set him down in the bed, taking off his jewelry and adornments, leaving him in his soft tunic and leggings. He brushed the hair from Aragorn's forehead silently, covered him up with sheets and covers.  
  
"Elrond."   
  
Elrond looked down at the boy, who had grabbed his sleeve, tugging it a little. "Aragorn?"   
  
"What is that singing?" Aragorn turned towards the window, listening to the sound of mourning elvish song wafting in on the night breeze. In the quiet of the evening, it seemed everywhere, drifting like a melancholy perfume. "Why is it so sad?"   
  
Elrond looked down at Aragorn, looking so young and small in the huge bed, and almost told a lie. But lies had a way of coming back to the one who told them, he knew. And he had not had lied in many, many years. In the end, he considered it less painful to be honest and not spare the boy's feelings.   
  
"It is a lament. A song of mourning," he said quietly, brushing back the hair from Aragorn's face again. No matter what he did, it seemed to fall back into place, but it comforted him to do it. And it seemed a comfort to Aragorn, as well. "It is a song for your father."   
  
Aragorn grew quiet for a moment, the fur covers pulled up to his chin, then spoke again, his voice a whisper. "What do they...say about him?"  
  
"That he was a good man. That he was brave, and strong, and noble. That he was always our friend, and a star among his people," Elrond said softly.   
  
Aragorn looked up at him a minute, then moved, turning his back to Elrond. Elrond saw the boy's shoulders shivering, hitching, and put his hand on Aragorn's shoulder.   
  
"What's wrong?"   
  
Aragorn did not speak. He didn't turn back towards Elrond.   
  
"Please, Aragorn. I would only help you. Tell me." He reached out to touch Aragorn's hair again, but Aragorn moved his head slightly, recoiling, and Elrond pulled his hand back. Finally, Aragorn spoke, his voice choked with tears.   
  
"I hid. They shot my father down and I hid. I couldn't fight. I was a coward."   
  
Elrond put his hand on the edge of the bed, since Aragorn would not let him touch him. He wanted desperately to give consolation to the boy, but he wasn't sure how.  
  
"You are not a coward, Aragorn. You had to watch your father fall. You should not have had to fight. It took great courage to be taken by orcs and still live long enough to be rescued."  
  
"But I could not protect him."  
  
"Oh, Aragorn," Elrond whispered. He touched the boy's shoulder again, and this time it was not shrugged off. "He was a Ranger. He protected you, and that was worth everything to him. He loved you enough to give his life so that you could live. Do not throw away that sacrifice. Do not belittle it."  
  
Now, Aragorn turned and came up on his hands, looking at Elrond, his face stricken and streaked with tears, shivering, the fur blanket falling down to his waist. Elrond had never seen such raw grief before, and his heart was touched by it. He did not understand grief for the dead, not the same way that this boy was grieving, but he understood what it did to people. And he knew he felt it, grief more for Aragorn than for Arathorn. For the survivor, rather than the dead. The dead could feel nothing. Only the survivors could suffer so. He pulled the boy against him, to tremble in his strong arms against his chest.   
  
"It's all right, Aragorn, it'll be all right, you'll see..." Elrond took one of the boy's hands. It was so cold. He tucked the boy against his chest, murmuring soft elvish words into the boy's hair over and over, feeling the boy sob against him slowly, cheek against Elrond's robes. But Aragorn didn't speak.   
  
If only he would speak, Elrond thought, if he was talk this poison out of him, the grief and the guilt. But the boy's shivering went on and on. Elrond stroked Aragorn's hair and face and arms, rubbing the boy's back, just letting him cry.  
  
The sobs slowly stopped, and the trembling. Elrond leaned forward slightly to see if Aragorn had fallen asleep. He couldn't tell, though the boy's eyes were closed. Should he say anything? No, he thought. If he was silent, maybe Aragorn would doze off. The lament was still being sung, and probably would be sung throughout the night. Next to the sound of it, the rest of the palace was very still.   
  
Aragorn's breath was coming even and steady finally. Elrond could feel the light flutter of the boy's mortal heart against his chest. It beat differently than an elvish heart, quicker and harder, as if defying the day it would stop. How would it be, to raise this boy, the struggle and the pain and the joy and the laughter, and then finally the grief? Somehow, these thoughts had lost a little of their bite. He was not worried about them now.  
  
He moved the boy gently back to the bed, sliding Aragorn's head onto the pillow, arranging the covers. He continued smoothing the boy's soft hair for a few moments, then leaned down and put a soft kiss on the boy's forehead.   
  
"I heard Elladan and Elrohir. They spoke of a new name for you, so I will give you one," Elrond whispered, cradling the boy's face.   
  
"Estel. Our hope. The hope of your people." Elrond left him there with the door ajar so he could hear the voices in the halls, and not be afraid.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Orcs everywhere. There was screaming all around him. Terrible wailing cries. The Rangers were outnumbered, far outnumbered. His father was knocking them away, turning his sword in a great arc, knocking them down, pitched himself into battle, fighting for his life. For the life of his son.   
  
Arrows, arrows raining down in the dark.   
  
"Father!" Aragorn screamed and screamed, unable to take his eyes off his father's form. Arathorn stood still, arrows sticking out from him. Aragorn found himself in the arms of orcs, and pushed at them, trying with all his strength to push them away, and all his strength was not enough. He jerked loose his legs only to have them caught again by clawed, cold, hurting fingers. He shoved at them with his arms, only to have them pinned to his sides.   
  
"Father!" This cry came out of him with all of his worst pain and fear. He howled again wordlessly, a sound of pure fury, thinking maybe this last defiant angry shout will be a defense, and protect him and his father. But his father had already fallen, and the orcs had him.   
  
Defense? Defense against what? He didn't know. He didn't know any words to describe his loathing of these creatures. It wasn't a part of his vocabulary. It was suffering without a name. Before they had attacked the Rangers and his father and him, he had been too young to understand that there were things, intelligent things, that would hurt you for absolutely no reason other than the fact that they loved to hear you shriek in agony and terror. He had grown up all too quickly, alone in the dark.  
  
Andune's keening, screeching cry in the darkness, terrible to hear. He dropped like a stone in the air, talons and cruel jagged beak searching. He ripped at soft orc eyes with his beak, blinding one of orcs that was holding Aragorn. Black blood flew in the night air. Talons battered at the orc's face, turning it into a gory ruin.   
  
And darkness swept in...  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Aragorn sat up in bed with a gasp, gazing out into the darkness. There was a moment of terror when he didn't recognize where he was, and then he remembered. The last thing in his dream he had heard before he woke had been the cry of the hawk. But even after he knew he was awake, that same razor sharp cry sounded again. It was coming from outside his window.   
  
"Andune," he whispered, sitting up in his bed. He had never been in a bed so soft. He sank into the feather mattress, and when he heard the falcon cry out again, more softly this time, he was suddenly wide awake. He got up and walked over to the open window, looking out. Andune perched on a tree limb near the window, and turned to look at him. The moon was reflected in the hawk's eyes.   
  
"You came back. Why did you come back?" Aragorn asked, his voice almost inaudible. The hawk didn't answer, only tucked its head under its wing.   
  
Aragorn walked back over to the bed and got it, warming his feet under the furs. He squirmed around, and moved from side to side, but not matter what he did, he couldn't get comfortable again. He had spent so many long months sleeping out on the ground that the bed felt too soft to him. Finally, he crawled out again, took the quilt of soft furs, and curled up on the cold stone of the floor, wrapping the blanket around him.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Review review, people! Tell me what you want, and if I can fit it in, I will! 


	6. Lessons with Legolas

Author's Note: Nilmandra, I'm way ahead of you. This chapter was almost finished by the time I saw your review. ^_^ It was kinda creepy, actually. Anyway, yeah, this is the sixth chapter. (And no, there's not going to be any slash. Don't worry, Frodo, I've actually gotten a lot more reviews than this, they just got erased when I had to repost the fic.) Aragorn's a little older now, and will be Estel from now on, until he learns about Isildur. He's pretty much forgotten about his past (except when certain people bring it up), since it happened to him when he was much younger, and considers himself a son of Elrond now, for all practical purposes.  
  
PS - Yeah, I'm a quick updater when I'm inspired, but it'll probably be a little slower during the week than during the weekend, because real life interferes with my writing time. So don't get used to like, two updates every day, just 'cause I can afford to do that on the weekend. *laughs* Alrighty?  
  
Lessons with Legolas  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
"Estel, for Elbereth, open both of your eyes! You do not want to be half-blind when you shoot a bow!"  
  
Estel pulled the bow back further, straining the elvish hairstring as he aimed. "Legolas, Andune could take out an orc's eye from a mile-high dive, and he is half-blind."  
  
"If mortals had aim as good as a hawk's eyes, they could afford to use only one. Do as I tell you."  
  
It was his first time to draw from the custom quiver that Legolas had brought him, as his thirteenth birthday present. Legolas would not let him use arrows from the beginning. There was no need; the prince of Mirkwood had been using a bow for centuries before Estel was ever born. He could correct the boy just by watching him aim at a target and let loose the bowstring.   
  
Estel learned fast; the boy learned fast not only in weaponry, but in everything there was to learn for him at Rivendell. From his brothers, he learned to hunt, to gut and clean kills (not his own, not yet, but the kills of Elladan and Elrohir), to bless them and thank the woods for yielding them, then thank the creature for giving its life to them, to use every bit of a kill, meat, hide bone, and sinew, so that the creature's life would never have been in vain. He learned to find his way in the woods, to fish in quiet streams and pools, to know directions by the stars, to track and to walk the way the elves walked, without breaking twigs or crushing leaves, so that the ground was giving and silent beneath his feet. From Elrond learned the history and the language of the elves, and the manners of court.   
  
He was drawn to hunting. He could sit in a tree for hours and hours with a strange patience that was not childlike in the least, through a day and night, waiting for something to come along. When it did come, he would slowly draw up the training bow Legolas had given him, draw...and let go of the empty string. He would not kill in practice. Ever.  
  
Legolas was also his teacher, when he could make a visit to Imladris, which he did as often as he was able, as he had promised so many years before. But the lesson that Legolas would have him learn was darker than any of the ones his brothers or Elrond cared to teach him. Legolas only wanted one thing from him; it was the skill that was most important to the elf: how to shoot a bow, and how to hit what you aimed at every time. How to kill with one blow, not deer or rabbits, or wild boar, but yrch. Orcs, the bane of the dark forests of Mirkwood.   
  
The others had taught him too, but it was only Legolas who forced him to learn. Elladan and Elrohir let him follow them around, and he picked up what he learned from them by watching and helping. Elrond answered his questions, whenever he had them. But Legolas was always asking them, always pushing Estel, trying to figure out if he had really learned what he was being told. He came and went out of his way to teach the boy. Sometimes he seemed hard to please, and other times he seemed impossible. But to Estel, he proved to be the best guide of them all.   
  
"Okay, Estel," Legolas said, coming up behind the boy and correcting his aim, placing his hands over Estel's. He leaned his head in next to the boy's, leaning down so that they were cheek to jowl, his elvish eyes clear and sharp as he looked down the line of the bow. "If your quiver is even a little uncomfortable, or low on your back, tell me now and I'll fix it. We didn't come here to chase misguided arrows because your pull was off."  
  
Estel let out a growl of frustration and rolled his eyes, looking back at the elf with an indignant scowl. "Legolas, what would you do if I didn't tell you that the quiver was low? What if I missed every mark on those tree trunks? Cuff me up the head like a child?"  
  
Legolas grinned. He could no longer consider Estel a child. He was the same boy that the elf had brought to Rivendell all those years ago, and he was different at the same time. There was a confidence in his expression, a broadness across his shoulders. He was a shadow of the man he was to become. "You're not a tot to be slapped and struck in correction, and I won't treat you like one."   
  
"So what if I miss?"  
  
Legolas's voice was tranquil and completely sure of Estel's ability. "You won't miss."  
  
"But what if I do?" There was a flicker of uncertainty in the boy's voice that Legolas didn't like.   
  
"You'll do it again. And again. And again. Until you get it right, or the light fails us, or you faint from exhaustion. Or all our arrows are lost. One of the above, or all of them."  
  
Estel groaned good-naturedly. His arm was already aching with the thought of it. He tested his quiver again. It was slung across his back, and was much simpler than the quivers of Legolas or his brothers or any of the other elves, but it served its purpose, simple or not. Estel had had to stand still for many days and pull arrows from it over and over while Legolas watched, until it had been fitted to perfection.   
  
"Those aren't just marks, Estel."  
  
Estel snorted proud laughter, lowering his bow. "They're not?"  
  
Legolas did not return the smile, or the laughter. His face was silent. "They're not. They're the yrch from the plains. The ones that took you."  
  
Estel's face went rigid and hard. "Legolas...don't."  
  
"Yes. Do not turn your anger on me. Turn it on these orcs. The ones that held you down while you screamed. The ones that took down your comrades. The ones that killed your father. Remember how they laughed? Remember their cold hands as they dragged you through the night?"  
  
"Don't do this, Legolas, you know not what you do."   
  
Legolas's face was cold and still. "I know that you can avenge your father, if you will quit whining and joking and listen to me. Believe my words. Those marks are what I say they are. So take them down!!"   
  
Estel's hand flew to his back, sending the arrows right and accurate. His markmanship was effortless. His bowstring sang. Five arrows flew from his bow, and five arrows stuck out from the trunks he had aimed at.   
  
When he lowered his bow, there was silence in the woods. Even the birdsong had ceased. The earth and trees seemed to tremble.   
  
"Legolas....Why did you do that?"  
  
"So that your aim would be straight and your heart would be true."   
  
"...It was cruel."  
  
"It worked, didn't it?" Legolas walked around him and up to the trees, inspecting the arrows before ripping them from the thick bark. "I do not want you to be like Elladan and Elrohir. They hunt and they kill and they do it well, but it's a game to them."   
  
There was the slightest trace of bitterness in the elf's voice. "They treat everything like a game, and it's dangerous. I do not want you to be like them. They kill orcs for sport, but they don't understand the danger of it. You've seen orcs for what they really are. That's why I did it. Never treat killing as a sport, Estel...no matter how dark and evil the things you hunt."  
  
He looked back at Estel, who was regarding him with a cool, angry gaze. He smiled a little, tossing one of the arrows to the boy, who caught it deftly.   
  
"That one was off the mark a little. The rest of the orcs fell. That one lived for a few seconds more, just long enough to cleave your skull in two and leave your blood and brains on the grass. Do it again, and cleaner this time." He walked over and handed all the arrows back to the boy, looking down into his face. "Do them all again."   
  
"Sometimes I hate you, Legolas."  
  
Legolas smiled. "No you don't."  
  
Estel tried to maintain his furious expression a few moments longer, then smiled back grudgingly, fighting back the urge to laugh. "Ai. Maybe not." He slung the bow over his shoulder, then looked up at Legolas. "Legolas...I know, you don't have a lot of time these days, but...I'm big enough now to carry one of the training swords from the armory. Would you-"  
  
"Teach you?" Legolas did not like where these questions were going. He was fine with teaching the boy how to use a bow; every elf learned it, male or female, as a means of defense. But a sword...if you were close enough to your enemy to use a sword, you were close enough to be killed. He tried to tell himself that to teach the boy this thing would be no different than anything else he had taught. It didn't matter that Estel was already a good rider, and a promising archer, and a deadly quiet, patient hunter. He knew from what he had already taught Estel that he could teach him this too, and he knew the boy would succeed at it. But he knew he shouldn't encourage the boy now, for Estel's own sake. Elrond was protective of him, and with good reason. He could be reckless when challenged. He had become a fiery-tempered young man by necessity. He would never run away from a dare.   
  
"....Very well," he said, finally, looking down at Estel. Their eyes locked for a few long seconds, and Estel dropped his first, as was proper.   
  
"Thanks, Legolas."   
  
Legolas began to walk away, back towards the Great Hall. "I wouldn't thank me just yet, Estel. You only thought archery was hard. Swordplay will be worse. You can thank me when you can put that obnoxious Yarra to shame with it."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Review, people! 


	7. Elladan's Hind

Author's Note - Sorry about Celebrian, guys. I had read about it, knew about it, just forgot when I wrote the chapter. Nevertheless, I have worked my stupidity into the story, and am now giving the twins (well, Elladan) a chance to tell their side of the story.   
  
PS - Oh yeah, hind and roe are other words for deer. Just to let you know. And Estel is aging about, about three years.  
  
Elladan's Hind  
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Legolas's lessons with the sword came at strange times, when Estel was least expecting them. As the youngest prince of Mirkwood, Legolas's duties of state took him far from both Mirkwood and Rivendell often, and he came infrequently, though as often as he could, as the next few years passed, and as the seasons came and went, as they ever did. Andune, now very old and barely able to feed himself, flew from the Great House one twilight, and Estel never saw from him again. This sad turn marked the last trace of Arathorn's Aragorn, although Estel himself barely remembered the name, it had been so long ago when he last heard it. Nothing was left for any mortal to mark him by. At a glimpse, with his boyish stature of sixteen summers, he could barely be distinguished from an elf at all.   
  
The only thing that bothered Estel in his sheltered, comfortable life was that as the years passed, he changed very much, and no one else ever did.  
  
Estel took great pride in what Legolas had to teach him, more than any of his other lessons. He took to the sword from the beginning. A bow had always seemed to him an elvish weapon, and his lesser skill with it compared to Legolas and the others, no matter how much he practiced and tried, seemed to be a constant reminder to him of his mortal heritage. It was a reminder he didn't want to think on.  
  
He didn't mind whenever Legolas left Rivendell. Estel needed that time solitary in deep practice. He took his training sword far off into the woods, where none would see him, chopping at falling leaves and shadows. He made sure that Legolas never knew how many long, hard hours he put into practice, swinging the heavy broadsword until his arms spasmed in exhaustion and his hands bled. He snuck away from court often, retreating to the forest to pound the lessons of the blade into his dragging, stupid, mortal muscles. He could not understand how something that Legolas made seem so light and easy could hurt so much, and be so hard to do.   
  
He never forgot Legolas's lessons, not during his whole life. He became a little harder for what had been said, and he put his mortal past to the back of his mind, vowing never to think on it again. His disposition, though still formidable when he was pushed, became tempered by the quiet of the forests, and could rarely be found in the court, and almost always found in the woods.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~   
  
Deep in the woods of Rivendell, a lone doe stepped to the bank of a stream, dipping its head to drink delicately, unaware that a predator stalked it from the treetops.   
  
// I am as the stone. I do not breathe. I do not move. The tree blesses my hunt beneath my feet, and its bark does not make noise. The wind lends itself to me, that I may not be scented. //  
  
Estel started to pull the bow back, his movement soft and catlike. But he was suddenly aware that there was a presence behind him. He was not afraid, because only an elf could come up behind him and make no sound.   
  
Elladan's profile came up beside him, gazing down at the deer. Estel was slightly amazed. It was very rare to see his two twin brothers separated, although he had learned from years of living with them that while their faces matched, their personalities were very different. Elrohir was a silver-tongued child of the court, always ready to tell a story or entertain visiting guests, but Elladan preferred music and literature, and was most often found in the library, poring over old texts of indecipherable runic and writing, his brow furrowed in deep thought as he translated them. Elrohir thrived on chaos, while Elladan loved order. But when the two of them got together on a prank, Estel soon found out, they worked as a perfect pair. Elladan always had the intellect to devise a conniving plan, and Elrohir could always be counted on the brazen courage to carry it out.  
  
Yet, no matter how different their interests are, they could hardly be divided. Elladan would often be found suffering through court chatter for the sake of Elrohir, and Elrohir would gaze in boredom out a window as Elladan read. They could not be parted, even if remaining together was tedious.   
  
"Hungry are you, Estel?" he whispered, voice too soft for the deer to hear, and just loud enough for Estel to catch what he said.   
  
"Just hunting," Estel whispered, his eyes never leaving his prey.   
  
"The Eldar do not hunt when we are not hungry, brother, and the cellar is filled to the brim. We have no need of venison."  
  
Estel looked away from the deer to study his brother's face long and hard, his gray eyes piercingly intense. Elladan scowled softly under the inspection. "What? Why are you looking at me that way?"  
  
Estel's gaze was still accusing. "Legolas told me that you kill for sport. You do, don't you? When you go off and hunt the orcs? We have no use for them, they do not dare to come here, but you go out and hunt them anyway. Is that not hunting for sport?"  
  
"He did, did he?" Elladan's face was like stone for a moment, unreadable as he gazed out into the woods, and then he leaned down to the boy.  
  
"Estel, Legolas is a very good friend...but he sometimes speaks when he should keep silent, and especially times when he does not know the truth. Elrohir and I have our reasons for hunting orc, and sport may be one of them, but it's not idle frolic."   
  
"Why do you kill them, then?"  
  
"It is not our place to say, brother," Elladan replied quietly, putting his hand on Estel's shoulder. "Even if it was, the pain and anger of it makes my heart ache, and I have not spoken of it since that day." The elf sighed. "I am not saying to not listen to him. But when you do hear his words, remember that to us, Legolas is still very young...like your age to his. He is still very much a child to us, like you."   
  
Elladan stilled as the deer lifted its head, wide ears listening carefully, then he pointed at it, looking earnestly into Estel's face. "See that roe, Estel? Legolas is like that roe. He would walk up to the hunter with love and trust in his eyes, because he believes the hunter will not hurt him. And Legolas tries to see the good in all things. He has faith in them. It is a defiance of his father, who holds wary suspicion in all things and towards all creatures."  
  
"But what do you think would happen to that roe if it stepped outside the borders of our realm, Estel?"  
  
Estel looked down at the doe, which was grazing delicately. "It'd be killed."  
  
"That's right, Estel. It'd be killed. It would be killed for its own misguided trust. So I ask you, Estel, to take care of Legolas, when you're strong enough. He is wise and strong himself, but don't forget he is like the deer, easily killed for his love of other creatures, and his unwillingness to see fault in them. Always protect anyone who has that innocence, Estel...and especially those who are smaller than you, meeker, who cannot protect themselves."   
  
The dark-haired elf scowled, then continued. "Legolas believes that there_is_good in all things, Estel, but I believe he's wrong. Legolas hunts yrch when they get too close to his court, when they stray too far from Dol Guldur, and that is all. Even a buck will show its antlers, when it must defend itself. He's a great warrior, but he sometimes rides the line between assassin and politician. He'd rather treat with the orcs than fight, if he thought he could. He is too smart to think he can, but he hates that there is no better solution than slaughter. He values peace in the forests."   
  
Elladan looked back out at the deer. "But I believe that they are evil creatures, Estel. Pure, undiluted evil. Anything that laughs as it kills or tortures innocents is so, I say. They are so dark, even the fair Sun shuns them, she who would gladly shine down on all things."   
  
He glanced down at Estel, finding the boy listening to him seriously, and nodded. "All I am saying is that Legolas cannot bear to see absolute corruption in something. He has always been afraid of it, ever since he was a child. So take his advice lightly on such things, because he says we have not seen the full extent of them, and he's wrong. We have seen more evil in yrchs' dark places than even you, Estel. I dare to say his counsel is good, brother, but I can promise ours is better."   
  
The dark-haired elf smiled a little, and clapped Estel on the shoulder softly. "Come on home and wash up. Get ready for the banquet."  
  
"Banquet?" Estel asked, scowling a little. "There's a banquet?"  
  
Elladan laughed, and the deer was frightened away. "Not just any banquet, Estel. It is your birthday, did you not remember? If you spent just a little more time in court and a little less time communing with the trees and earth, you might have recalled it."  
  
He leapt out of the tree.   
  
"Do not forget, Estel! Arwen is arriving from Lothlorien tonight!"  
  
// Arwen? //  
  
In all his years at Imladris, he had never met his father's daughter. She had been visiting off at Lothlorien for the last ten years, a long time in the life of a mortal, a very short visit in the life of an elf.   
  
Elladan went back towards the Great House, leaving Estel to his own solemn thoughts.  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Review! This chapter was shorter, but what I want to do in the next one has to be separate! 


	8. Tinuviel

Author's Note: I know this one took longer to come out than the others, but it was harder to write, I had lots of schoolwork, and I had to go back and check out the first meeting of Arwen and Aragorn, just enough to stay true, and so I wouldn't make a total fool out of myself. It's not the same as Tolkien's, of course. Where would be the fun in that? Don't get shocked yet, I'm going to take yet a few more plot twists Tolkien didn't exactly intend. ^_^ But the story will be better for them.  
  
Tinuviel  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Estel ran.   
  
He ran as the deer had ran, as if fleeing for his life. But he wasn't afraid to be out after dark (except maybe for the fact that he was supposed to be home already, and preparing for the banquet), he wasn't afraid to be in the woods, not with the great full moon to light them. He ran because he felt like it, following the impulse as easily as a wild thing, his bow and quiver bouncing against his back, great striding leaps over fallen log and root. Even as he ran, the fallen leaves were quiet beneath his feet. He ran a few miles back towards the Great House until he reached the well-used trail. There he walked down the middle of it, moonlight dappling his back from above the trees. His muscles were still fresh and tingling from the short run; he sipped in the sweet, cool night air like miruvor.   
  
When he had recaptured his breath, he sang, not the sweet, echoing sounds of elvish song, but pulling the melody from the pit of his soul, the elvish words given ruddy life and vitality by his strong human timbre. Out here, in the dark, he did not bother to soften his voice with elvish inflections.   
  
**The leaves were long, the grass was green  
The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,   
And in the glade a light was seen  
Of stars in shadow shimmering.  
Tinuviel was dancing there  
To music of a pipe unseen  
And light of stars was in her hair  
And in her raiment glimmering.**  
  
Estel heard the soft thump of horse's hooves on the fallen leaves of the trail behind him leading to the Great House, and he almost faltered in his song.   
  
// Don't stop singing. Whoever it is will know you've heard, and they do not call a greeting. They mean to come up unnoticed. Where are the guards? Probably pulled in for banquet. But there's supposed to be someone... They will not pass unseen. Perhaps they do not mean harm, coming up by the road instead of through the woods. //  
  
He almost lost the song, its lilt and rhythm, but then began the next verse as strongly as the first, his deepening mortal voice giving a pleasing sway to the elvish words. It was after twilight, and he had not heard the horse's footsteps until it was very close. Silently as he sang, he scolded himself for not being able to hear it approach. He thought to climb a tree and watch the rider pass, not out of cowardice, but as caution, to see what might be coming up the trail, but didn't. The moon had passed behind the clouds, and he did not have elvish eyes, to see in the unlit night. In the darkening times of the world, a fell stranger in Imladris would be rare, but not unheard of.   
  
**There Beren came from mountains cold,  
And lost he wandered under leaves  
And where the Elven-river rolled  
He walked alone and sorrowing.   
He peered between the hemlock-leaves  
And saw in wonder flowers of gold  
Upon her mantle and her sleeves  
And her hair like shadow following.**  
  
  
The horse trotted closer at his back, and when it had come fairly near, he turned back, bow at close hand, not drawn, but ready to be, if needed. He was not as accurate as Legolas with the bow, but almost as quick. "Daro. Halt," he added in the Common Tongue, thinking that the rider may be a stranger to the Elven-lands.  
  
There was a soft clicking of the tongue as the rider called the horse to a stop, and when Estel stepped forward a few paces to have a good look, he blushed a little.   
  
"Tinuviel," he said softly, but not softly enough to whisper, and unable to help himself.   
  
This was not a visiting guest to Rivendell, not from what he could see. No guest ever came after sunset, anyway. It was an elf-maiden, mounted on a white steed. Her hair was like spun ebony, pulled back partly from her pale, fair face, and her eyes were blue and deep as dark water lit by the reflection of stars. She wore the grey elven-cloaks and golden leaves of Lorien.  
  
Estel bowed slightly, hoping the dark would hide his blush, for speaking so bluntly to a lady of the Golden Wood, as if she was a common waygoer.  
  
"G-gentle nights to you, maiden, and good fortune. Estel of Halfelven at the beckon of you and yours," Estel stuttered, not so stricken by her beauty that he forgot his manners.   
  
The she-elf laughed, a low sound like echoing bells. "And I am at your service, wandering Beren. (Estel blushed even harder at this.) So you must be the person I have come to honor, if you are the mortal they call Estel. But why did you call me Tinuviel?"  
  
Estel raised his head. Her eyes were amused, but her expression was gentle. She wore a coronet at her brows, golden leaves and branches intertwining. He dared to meet her pleasant teasing.  
  
"Because the moonlight is captured in your hair and your eyes hold the stars. You are as fair as they say, my lady, and mirror all the beauty of the night," he answered, smiling tentatively.   
  
The elvish maiden laughed again, delighted. "And you have a silver tongue."  
  
"If my words were unseemly, I apologize," Estel said, afraid maybe he had insulted her. He was still in his hunting garments, and disheveled from long hours in the woods and his run, and he had not had a chance to change for the banquet. He didn't very often care what others thought of him, as long as they thought him as capable as any of the Eldar, but this was one of the few times he wished he was dressed like a noble of court.  
  
She flushed prettily and laughed again at the sincerity in his voice, wild roses blossoming in her cheeks, and shook her head.. "No, I'm pleased. And I'm Undomiel. Arwen of Halfelven."  
  
"The Evenstar?" Estel bowed again, raising his right arm to his chest in an elvish honorance, and such chivalry out on a darkening forest trail, with no kind of nobility or court in sight, surprised Arwen into another laugh. She was afraid the young mortal would be offended, but he just smiled when he raised his face back to hers. His expression was shy and full of youthful, innocent honesty, his gray eyes beautiful, hair long in elvish fashion, pulled back, so dark it was some indeterminable color between brown and black, glossy as a raven's feather. A most agreeable face, she thought.   
  
"Yes. I have heard much about you from my father's letters."  
  
Estel laughed now, his voice soft. "I have heard almost nothing of you. I have lived in the Last Homely House for almost all of my life, raised as the son of Elrond, and I have never had the pleasure to meet my father's daughter. Now that I have, I'll escort you into the Great Hall. The woods are dark, and the times are dangerous."  
  
Arwen laughed again, but this time there was a softest tone of indignation to it. "I know the name of almost every tree in this forest, the step of every gametrail, and I have crossed many leagues from Lorien to Imladris alone to come here. I can take care of myself, and the shadow does not hold such reign yet, not in these pure bright western lands. No evil would brave the ford. But thank you all the same, Estel."  
  
Estel laughed again, cheerfully. Already, words were easy between them, and his reserve was fading quickly. It was easy to jest with her as it was to speak with Elladan or Elrohir. She even had the tilt of their heads, and their quick wit. It was all too easy for him to tell that they were blood kin. "Fair enough, my lady. But since you are so strong and able, perhaps I should stay at your side, and walk along your great shining stallion, a star in the woods, lest ill fortune should fall on me in the shadows, all the same."  
  
"Very well, Estel," she replied smoothly, smiling as her pride was soothed, "but only if you do not call me 'lady' again. We are now known to each other, are we not, and members of the same house?"  
  
"Ai, good," Estel answered, his voice still light. "Between my bow and the silver blade you carry concealed at your side, nothing would dare to come upon us."  
  
Arwen started a little at that, her eyes widening in a way that reminded him of Elrond. "How did you-?"  
  
"I saw the outline of it at your side when you pulled your horse to a stop. I was guarding the border of the Court. Seeing where you kept your weapon would be the first thing I would look for. We should go. I am going to be late to my own banquet, and Ada will scold me bitterly. Our arriving in a pair serves two counts; you will be escorted into court, as is proper for the daughter of a lord, and Ada will not yell at me in front of you. Perhaps he will forget to scold me at all, he'll be so happy to see you after so many years. So in that respect, we will both be served well by the arrangement."  
  
"Of course," Arwen replied, a little shocked, both by the young man's familiar address of her father, and of his revealing her hidden weapon so easily. As naive as the boy seemed, he had obviously made it a point to let her know that he wasn't as innocent as he looked.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Review review!! 


	9. Dream Walking

Author's Note: Yup, another chapter. By the way, I thought to mention that whenever Estel's talking, unless I make a point of saying he's speaking Common Tongue, it's Elvish.  
Read and review!  
  
Dreamwalk  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
After parting with Arwen, Estel walked back into the Great House in a daze, a small smile on his face. He didn't even feel it when Legolas grabbed him by the arm, dragging him back to his quarters.   
  
Estel glanced over at him in half-interest as the blonde elf dragged him to his rooms. Legolas was extravagantly dressed in a green tunic with gold thread interwoven into it, making him seem as if he was dressed in leaves with the sunlight shining through them. A standard of Mirkwood was at his brow in a golden crown, a beautiful thing woven of leaves and branches, with a great tree in the front of it, an emerald woven into its branches. His hair was braided back into an intricate, beautiful mess that Estel was sure had taken hours. Legolas managed to look both uncomfortable in the formal clothing and amused and exasperated at Estel at the same time.   
  
"Are you perfectly mad, Estel? Late to your own banquet? Good Varda! Well, come on, we've got to get you ready. You can't go into the Hall like that. Elrond will throw fits, and your brothers may die of laughter...what is the matter with you?! What is that smirk on your face? You look like a court dog that's taken food from the table without being caught."  
  
"Nothing, Legolas...nothing. Stop fussing like a hen," Estel muttered absently, that whimsical smile never leaving his face. He pushed the door open into his room, starting a bath as Legolas rummaged through his clothing trunks.   
  
Legolas laughed behind him as Estel stripped and got into the tub, still moving in that slow, half-dreaming step. "Blast it all, Estel, haven't you even set anything out to wear? What, did you forget about your own birthday party?"  
  
"Yes...I suppose I did," Estel whispered, sinking down into the water.   
  
Legolas sighed, picking out a charcoal gray tunic and a mithril vest to go over it, a dashing cloak, soft gray leather boots, checking the thing over for any tears or worn spots. Estel wasn't very good at making sure his clothes were resown or redyed whenever he tore them or wore them down. He was a little troubled about Estel's strange distracted stupor. Usually, such feasts and banquets caused Estel to be awkward and rather seriously focused on the present, desperate not to make a fool of himself.   
  
This Estel, on the other hand, washed himself with an absent-minded kind of hurry, but his movements were still relaxed and langorous. The fanciful look of preoccupation in his eyes said his mind was still absorbed by Arwen's face, the starlight in her eyes, her quiet laugh and her raven hair.   
  
"Estel?"  
  
"Mmmhmm?" Estel mumbled, like he was half-awakened from deep slumber. He lifted his eyes Legolas. The elf scowled at him with a mixture of dismay and confusion. "What in the *blazes* is wrong with you?!"   
  
"Nothing, Legolas. Nothing. I'm fine. Just fine." He got out of the tub and dried himself off.   
  
// Just stepped into a dream, that's all. //   
  
Legolas let Estel dress himself, then straightened his vest and cloak, looking into the mortal's face critically.   
  
"Nothing wrong, my ass. If nothing's wrong with you, Estel, than I'm an orc." He put a brooch of Imladris on Estel's tunic, then fit him with a crown to match Elladan's and Elrohir's, a pretty silver thing formed of stags and leaves and gods' eyes which turned back into stags again. "You look like a man who's been struck in battle and doesn't realize he's bleeding to death."  
  
"Hmm.."   
  
Estel didn't even mumble or fidget when Legolas picked at his clothes. He stood there, his dark hair pulled back at his neck and drying in the firelight, dreamily staring into space, still wearing that indomitable smile that threatened to infuriate Legolas. Could he have fallen in love? Legolas wondered, eyes searching Estel's face carefully. Who would it be? He could think of no she-elf at court that Estel had ever even seemed vaguely interested in.   
  
"Estel, are you sure you're not ill? Or bleeding to death? I didn't see a wound."   
  
Estel brought his attention back to Legolas and laughed a little. "Legolas, I'm fine. I'm fine. Really, I am. Stop worrying so much."  
  
"If you say so," Legolas replied, looking Estel up and down. "Are you ready to go?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
Legolas smiled finally, a lighthearted look made him seem young. "Then let's do it. And wipe that dumb expression off your face before someone thinks you've been struck feeble-witted. The smile is good and fitting, very regal and distracted, but the vacant stare is a little too idiotic to pull the look off."  
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Estel wasn't hardly thrown off by the great banquet and dance at all; after all, he'd been living through such parties all his life. Sometimes they seemed the only things marking the passage of his life. Every other one's life here passed silently, gliding through time like a hawk through the air. Only his own time seemed violent, confusing, and he felt a tinge of melancholy whenever he thought about it.   
  
Every day, it seemed, he got stronger and wiser and broader through the shoulders, more articulate at court (whenever he deigned to make an appearance), better with the weapons given to him. But these, his caretakers and his companions, never grew older, were always strong and wise to begin with. Sometimes, he thought, it was like living with breathing ghosts, never to age or change their ways. Their songs were beautiful, their music and their ways, but there was always that touch of timelessness to the melodies, and some days Estel thought it would drive him mad.   
  
"Estel!" Elladan and Elrohir walked forward, dressed splendidly in matching attire, each putting a hand on his shoulders. Elladan sighed. "Finally, you're here, brother. They were starting to wonder whether you'd ever returned from the forest, but then a servant said he saw you slinking into the Quarters, so we knew you hadn't been lost."  
  
Elrohir laughed. "Come, we'll introduce you to Arwen. She's come all the way from Lorien for the banquet, and says she'll be staying. Also, come see Ada, because he was beginning to make that face, you know, that squinched-up face he does when you're late and he's trying to be composed and it only half works."  
  
Estel let himself be dragged forward, hoping his face did not give away any clue that his heart was raging in his chest like a caged animal. He saw Arwen standing with Elrond, speaking with him. She was almost too beautiful to look at, in flowing gray beaded robes. He couldn't tear his eyes from her. Her hair was unbound now, and fell to her waist in a cascade of firelit ebony. Her eyes, he saw now, were not blue, as he thought, but a gray to match her father's.   
  
Elrond looked up and saw him, his slightly troubled, distrait look melting away into a majestic, distant sort of good humor. Estel noticed with a little amusement of his own that Elrohir's description of his father's expression when he was trying to be self-possessed and failed was completely accurate. "Ai, Estel, you have come to join your brothers and Legolas has come back with you. We were almost worrying." He glanced at Arwen, who was looking at Estel with a soft smile on her face, and then back at Estel. "I would introduce you two."  
  
"We've been introduced, Ada. Estel met me up the trail and escorted me. It was what made him late, I fear, so do not judge him so harshly." Arwen said, kissing her father on the cheek, more like a little girl than a dignified lady of court.   
  
Elrond laughed. "Alright, child." He caught the eye of the musicians playing, and they quieted, allowing him silence to speak. When the company of the Hall had turned to him, the elvish lord spoke, his voice strong and ringing.   
  
"People of Imladris, my fair subjects, I would ask you to welcome our fairest Evenstar, our highest daughter Undomiel, who has braved great distances and many perils to return to us from the Golden Wood, and our dear cousin Prince Legolas of Mirkwood, who has dared the same leagues."   
  
Arwen curtsied, and Legolas looked out onto the crowd-with a very distinctly grim and stately air, Estel thought, hiding a smile-and then bowed deeply. There was sweeping applause that echoed in the hall.  
  
"And also, we would honor our son Estel of Halfelven, who has seen his seventeenth summer, and has grown into a fine man before our eyes."  
  
There was another round of applause, and Estel bowed this time, feeling his face grow hot, and hoping he was not blushing as hard as he felt he was.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Estel was seated at his father's side, at the head of the center banquet table. Nearest to him on one side of the table sat Elladan and Elrohir, and on the other side sat Arwen and Legolas. All the carefree easiness that had been in his words in the dark was gone. Now that he found himself dining across from her, he could barely bring his eyes up to look at her in his shyness.   
  
While everyone around him spoke lightly as the music played and the plates full of steaming, wonderfully smelling food was set before him, he had never felt less like eating in his entire life. But he did eat. And talked, although later that night, when he was in his bed and thinking over the evening, he could not recall a word of his own conversation.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
The dinner was never-ending, and Estel, his court smile and manners feeling very forced on his face, longed to sneak away into the darker halls. There was dancing to be done, however, and he knew that as the guest of honor, there was no way he would be allowed to take leave of it. And as a member of the royal family, he did not even have the leisure of being able to sit out any of the dances.   
  
He wasn't aware of much. He danced with different maidens, many of which he knew, but could not remember their names, stole glances at Arwen whenever he dared and thought she looked radiant and wished that it had something to do with him, but was sure that it wasn't. The circling, graceful reels were accomplished with a carefree air that overwhelmed the nobility of the court, and there was much laughter to echo the music in the Hall.  
  
He found himself suddenly dancing with Arwen, and realized that he didn't think he would be able to move his feet, which had very quickly become mortally stupid and dragging. But then the music started, he didn't have time to think, and he led her forward into the dance, to the applause of the company.   
  
He spun her through figures, his feet moving with the same elvish elegance and timeless grace they had always moved with, no matter what he thought. He twirled her, his cloak whipping around him and her own robes flying to the rhythm of the music. He put his hand to the small of her back-palm relaxed on beaded velvet, fingers touching the warm skin of her back. Her fingers were intertwined with his. Her feet followed his effortlessly, moving with perfect ease. His eyes never left hers, nor hers his. In that moment, they may as well have been alone. Their crowns sparkled in the firelight and the candles from the chandeliers.   
  
The music stopped, and Estel suddenly realized the two of them had taken the eye of every lady and courtier in the room, the center of all attention. Arwen stepped forward, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on the lips. It was fleeting, but not sisterly; something flew between them, like a spark of lightning. A burst of deafening applause followed; Estel bowed and she curtsied, and they went back to their sets.   
  
He laughed and cheered and clapped on the cadence, letting the music sweep him up, whirling with the rest of his party. He made all the gestures he knew he was supposed to make, and knew that Arwen was making the same ones. He wondered if she wished as intensely as he did to get out of here, to run away out from the great fires of the Hall, and into the comforting dark that had hidden him all his life. He longed to run out and throw himself into the sedge, cooling his burning cheeks on the grass, or to crawl under the banquet table like he had so many years before, with Andune circling the hall and letting out his shrill, piercing cry.   
  
But he was a man now, not a fear-stricken child or a shy stumbling moonstruck youth. He did neither.   
  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


End file.
